Why we can't have nice things

I hate to sound like a grumpy old man, but as one of the great maxims of writing states, "To thine own self be true." I think that refers to writing. Or maybe it was my doctor rationalizing my occasional Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Nevertheless, I'm going to engage in some freestyle grumpiness.

A few weeks ago, I found myself on the Metro, LA's finest version of a subway. It should be stated from the beginning of this little journey -- I love Trains. I was headed to far-off Duarte, in Foothill country, to complete the sale of my Mustang Mach E, the best looking EV in the semi-utilitarian small crossover category.

Having negotiated what I thought to be a fair price and concluding all that mishegas with car dealers, the scummiest people on the planet next to GOP politicians, I was in a jolly mood. That is until I boarded the E-train. 

Within seconds, at a very early hour of the day, I was surrounded by stoners, loaders and potheads. Granted it lent itself to a very mellow atmosphere. Every passenger was sporting AirPods or headphones and was gently rocking to his or her own tunes. But by god, that smell!

There was a time in my life when cannabis produced a pleasant aroma. Perhaps because I was anticipating the sharing of said cannabis and an escape from the confusing curriculum of Calculus 298 and 19th Century English Literature. But those days, like my hairline, are long gone.

Last week Ms. Muse and I wisely avoided the parking dilemma and the flood of festival goers, and took the train from Sierra Madre (The Foothill's best kept secret) to the South Pas Eclectic something and something Festival. Once again we were overcome by the odor.

It was thick. And dank, as the kids would say. Not only that, I was certain, some of the ne'erdowells aboard the train were actively smoking the marijuana while ON THE TRAIN.

By the time we were approaching the Willoughby-like station in South Pasadena, I had my nose pressed up between the crack of the doors, gasping for some fresh oxygen.

The LA times recently reported that train ridership had sunk to new levels. And that troubled Metro executives were considering a new flashy marketing campaign to lure riders back to pre-Covid levels. 

Save your money (my money and yours, fellow taxpayers) and put some damn cops on the trains.

I may be suffering from some latent nostalgia, but it seems to me when I rode the NYC subway system in my long past youth, there were NY's finest aboard every car. Or every other car. Or maybe just hounding miniskirted women on the platforms. 

The point is they had a presence. 

And a deterrence factor.

Likewise, when riding the subways in Paris, it was not unusual to see police. Everywhere. Partout. Moreover these police were shouldering machine guns. Nothing says, "don't even try to smoke weed on these trains and make me un-holster my machine gun!"

If however the Mensas at Metro follow suit and do decide to whip up another useless marketing campaign, I'm more than willing to come out of semi-retirement and oblige them with my services. 

But don't be surprised if any and all of the concepts include something about machine guns.

Don't Tone It Down!

It's been little more than a year since I was pink slipped at PayPal. And in my estimation, I've been a very good boy about not saying anything disparaging about them. I'm not crystal clear about what I can and cannot say, according to the legalese clauses in my separation agreement. 

I figured silence, or near-silence, was my best bet.

I hate lawyers and their propensity to maul the English language. One could argue their lack of exactitude has put this country in the situation it is in today. As you sit and read this, the highest judicial court in the land is parsing and dissecting the Constitution in an effort to give our former president the freedom to commit crimes. Before, during and after he was in office. 

I don't know how to define Obscenity, but this takes it by a country mile.

I know you're wondering how this all gets to Miracle Whip, but it does. In less time than it takes to make an egg salad sandwich. Trust me.

You see, while I was at PayPal, a fine company with honorable intentions with astute leadership and crack marketing whizzes, I learned they had an entire team devoted to social media. They tweeted (or X'ed). They cultivated relationships. They even had their own Facebook page. And probably still do.

I have better things to do with my time than to hunt down the PayPal Facebook Page. 

Or do I?

Fascinated as I was about the prospect of people voluntarily following PayPal and all the innovations they were developing in the field of online payment systems, I thought, "Wait, what? People follow PayPal?"

And then I thought, I wonder what happened to the Miracle Whip generation of rebels who zealously eschewed mayonnaise and pledged their allegiance to the cause of No More Mayo, as outlined in this classic 2009 piece: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKOfGvbUx-s

Further, in service to the 9 loyal readers of RoundSeventeen, I put on my detective cap and ventured down this yolk-based Rabbit Hole.

It should come to no one's surprise, that there is indeed a Facebook Group dedicated to Miracle Whip. Not a small group, mind you. There are close to 250,000 people (perhaps worldwide) who wake up every morning, eager to open their Facebook page and find out what the Kraft Miracle Whip Crafters have done for them lately.

As if we didn't have enough tsuras about the 2020 election did you know this was going on?

I can't believe I missed that. Nor can I believe they haven't brought the Plate Debate back for 2024.

Sidenote: If I were on the Miracle Whip team I would be mad at Kraft for also making Mayo. You can't have your cake and eat it too. Especially, when in the same breath you're stocking the shelves at the local supermarket with Miracle Whip AND with Mayo!!!

That's double dealing and cuts against the rallying call of their 2018 cinematic efforts...

OK, we've had a little fun at the expense of the hardworking and incredibly creative marketing folks at Miracle Whip. But now it's time for a little more. 

I know from experience (Hello, data driven Mensas at PayPal) that the digital people love to analyze their numbers. Looking for marketing opportunities. And vital insight that can spell life or death in the spreadable sandwich condiment category. 

Let's make their Miracle Whip day even more miraculous and start following their Twitter feed, @MiracleWhip. They have close to 16,000 followers and haven't put up a post in more than 3 years. If 1600 of us were to sign up -- I know I'm being overly optimistic -- that would be an out-of-the-blue 10% jump.

A sudden and dramatic spike would make them dance a fancy dance in their khaki pants. 

And, selfishly, because they would eventually find the algorithm was tricked by this blog, it would make me a happy man. Well, as happy as I get.

Never, tone it down. 

Never.

Teenage ignorance!

I have used this symbol (The upside down flag) before. Perhaps many times. After knocking out these posts, rants, and scammological nonsense for 15 years, I've lost count of what I've done. And hope to discover more of what I haven't done.

As I write this, on a rare sunny morning in Los Angeles, thousands of ill-informed, malignant, and often antisemitic college students are preparing to wreak more havoc on American campuses (campi?). 

I can't help but wonder, where were all these outraged "American" students in 2014 when the Chinese government began a systematic persecution and cultural genocide on the Uyghurs in northwest China? Or do those Islamic lives not matter?

I went to The Google and found no such protests. There were reports of one angry coffee clatch on the campus of Stanford University, but other than that, nothing. Not even a movement to boycott goods coming from China. 

Perhaps these selectively-outraged students are too enamored of their Airpods and affordable flat screen TVs and couldn't go without the accoutrement of their cushy lifestyle to make that type of sacrifice.

Similarly, when the Arab Spring (remember that?) arrived in beautiful downtown Damascus, so did the persecution of Christian minorities and various Muslim sects not in line with Syria's Assad government. 

UN statistics, more accurate that the fakakta numbers released by Hamas, say more than 500,000 people, including women and children, were slain by the Syrian government. Not to mention the millions who have been displaced and now live in refugee camps throughout the region.

I went to The Google again and found college students doing what college students do: hackeysacking, smoking weed and making tik tok videos. 

Were there any calls for a boycott of goods produced in Syria? Again no. Perhaps because Syria, like so many countries in the Less-than-Fertile Crescent don't produce any goods, other than strife, despair and inhumanity fueled by century old, inter-Islamic schisms.

What I didn't see was the call for the dismemberment of the Syrian monarchy? "From the Euphrates to the Sea, Syria shall be free!"

But I do hear a lot of renewed naive calls for a Two State solution. 

Maybe if these 20 something year old kids cracked open a book they'd know that a Two State Solution was proposed in 1948, when many countries in post WWII and during the collapse of the British Empire, came into being. In fact, the Two State solution has been on the negotiating table many times since. Always summarily rejected, by one side.

I choose not to go down that rabbit hole. Because there's an even more pressing matter at hand: the Dissolution of our own 50 State experiment -- America.

As I am clicking and clacking these very words, our former president and the current GOP nominee who has promised to toss our Constitution in the terlet and make himself dictator for a day, is sitting in a courtroom facing 34 criminal counts.

As if that weren't disturbing enough, 6 of 9 of our Supreme Court justices are sporting their high falutin' robes and rewriting Article Two of the Constitution with the stipulation that the President (if we ever have another one after Trump,) will have broad powers, absolute (or even partial) immunity and be accountable to no one. 

Least of all, We The People.

I'm not sure these myopic tent-loving, hate-spewing kids are familiar with 20th century history (actually I am sure they're not) but Hitler and the National Socialists didn't come to power in Germany via a flash in the pan military coup. They did it by the slow moving erosion of German law.  

Sound eerily familiar? If not, take it from this hebraic canary in the coal mine, it should.

This country, where students are free to voice contrarian opinions, march, protest and enjoy the freedom of speech are actively ignoring the demise of those rights, in support of a "nation" where those rights, as well as the rights of women, LGBTQ, and other assorted minorities, would NEVER exist.

Talk about irony? Talk about distress? 

Meet Moris

I know this is completely off-brand for an old, curmudgeonly veteran of the ad industry, who has spent more years arguing and bickering with planners, strategists (sometimes to the point of tears, theirs not mine) and even agency CEOs, but I have a soft spot for kids (anyone under the age of 50) who are trying to make it in business.

Or even get into this crazy business of communications, be it advertising, public relations, content creation, or whatever AI has in store for all of us. 

Sadly, my two daughters followed in my size 11 EEE footsteps and are now successfully plying their trade at MAL (Media Arts Lab) and at Cartel Editing in NYC. Both girls adamantly refused any help from me. Leaving me high and dry with my 10,000 LinkedIn connections, in my desire to help some up-and-comer.

That is until Ms. Muse told me the story of Moris Joaquin Hernandez, her Student Communications Assistant for the past 11 months, at the Pullias Center at USC. 

In May, Moris will graduate from USC with a BA in Communications and a minor in Marketing. Unlike my daughters, and indeed unlike many of you, he doesn't have any familial contacts in the business who can steer him one way or another. 

He is the child of immigrants and the first in his family to even contemplate the notion of college. Much less graduating from one of the finest and most expensive private universities in the country. 

I mention the monetary aspect only because I have an even softer heart for kids, who like myself, scrimped, saved, worked, and worked some more, just enough to keep the college bursar's office at bay. 

Here's the difference. 

I did it because my father, who could've footed the bill and made it easier for me, chose not to. Moris did it because he had no choice. Just a trunkful of grit. Determination. And ambition. 

That's a story that flies in the ugly face of the xenophobic narratives pushed by many these days. And it's a story that is waiting for the next chapter to be written.

About a year ago, I was booted off LinkedIn for some poorly worded political punditry. I wrote a letter to the CEO and persuaded them to let me back on the platform. Explaining that since I am longer needed, nor wanted, in the once-hallowed halls of advertising, I make myself useful by helping others by putting them together with opportunities. 

That was not an empty claim. 

This is something I do in order to pay forward the generosity of those who helped me when, not only was I completely clueless, I was shopping around a portfolio that is, was, embarrassing, at best. that includes Dave Butler, Mel Newhoff, Hy Yablonka and Bob Kuperman, who steered me into the Nissan Regional Group and a rare shot at the big leagues.

I've exchanged some back and forth emails with Moris. He's a smart young man willing to work hard at whatever entry-level job he's offered. Having got my humble start in the mailroom, I've walked in his shoes. And now I'd like to help him get one of those shoes in the door. 

I'm convinced Moris, a sports enthusaist and his talents with Adobe Suite and his digital prowess, will be a great asset to anyone willing to give him a shot. Why? Because he wants it more.

Perhaps that anyone is you. Or someone you know. Let's put this LinkedIn thing to work. And get Moris employed. Ideally in Los Angeles. Or in Texas, where his family resides.

I'm attaching his resume for your perusal. Ms. Muse and I thank you in advance. 

We know you'll be thanking us later.

We the jury...

Maybe you suffer from the same affliction, but I have an inability to detect history in the making when history is actually being made.

For instance, on September 11, 2001, I was scheduled to get on a plane to Phoenix to pitch the crown jewel account in advertising: Red Roof Inn. Even after watching those 767's fly into the World Trade Center I called my art director John Shirley and said, "Do you think this is going to delay our flight?"

The magnitude had simply not hit me.

Similarly, on January 6th, 2021, my late wife's birthday, I saw the carnage unfold at our nation's capitol and still concerned myself whether I bought the right flavored cupcakes for that night's celebration.

Today, I find myself, and maybe you do too, underestimating the significance of the trial going on in New York City, a fitting locale considering the lying, merkin-sporting, pussy-grabbing abomination grew up and bilked the city for all it was worth with federal housing development subsidies.

This is a former President of the United States of America, the highest and formerly, most prestigious office in the land. On the planet. In the known universe. And he is on trial, not for shaboinking a leading actress in the shaboinking film business, but for buying her silence about said shaboinking, and falsifying the hush money as some type of legitimate "legal expense." 

As one of the many TV pundits pointed out, "If it was all so legal, why did they go to the extent of creating shell LLCs",  lying about it to the press (aboard Air Force One), and get out in front of all this when Michael Avenetti was on TV every night, shouting with a bullhorn, about the alleged shaboinking, my new favorite word.

It is all so SORDID.

And LOW RENT.

And SINGULAR in its TRUMPIAN fashion.

Sadly, however, I fear the result is also so predictable. 

Not because he is innocent, we all know he shaboinked her. We all know she slapped him on the butt with a Forbes magazine. And told her how much she reminded him of his daughter -- disgusting pedophile. 

And not because he has a crack legal team, the best that his dwindling money can buy.

He's going to get off scott-free and take a thousand victory laps and gloat until he can gloat no more because it only takes one juror to acquit. 

Just one. 

I've been Jury Foreman twice in my life, once on a criminal case and once for civil. I have sat with 24 perfect strangers for longer than I care to recall. And I can tell you first hand, the reality you and I see on a minute to minute to basis is not the reality experienced by some folks, who need an owner's manual to remember to breathe in and breathe out.

There are some extremely dumb ass people out there. And all it takes is one man or woman, pining for a lifetime membership at Mara Lago and unlimited flying time aboard Trump Force One, to let this NYC Pizza Rat of a Man return to his scurrilous ways.

Mark my word.

Prettay, prettay rich

Americans love their vacations. They work 50 weeks a year, just for the opportunity to NOT work 2 weeks a year. 

Who am I kidding? How many of us actually take two week vacations? 

Two weeks with my family in a cramped hotel room, living out of a suitcase, and paying $14 for a beer poolside would always drive me bonkers and yearning to be stateside and seated at the Long Table of Mediocrity™, writing B2B copy about bidirectional flanges.

Still, I managed to enjoy myself on the many vacations we took to Hawaii, Mexico, even Europe, though I probably wouldn't go back to Europe during the winter months when the cold stinging wind from the Firth of Forth has the power to stop an invading Saxon army in its track.

Know who hates vacations? Jerry Seinfeld. He said so in an interview that was floating around social media last week.

Poor Jerry.

Poor, Very Rich Jerry.

I started thinking about what a cursed life this man must lead. Cursed, not just because he can't go anywhere he pleases without untoward attention at every turn. That's the cost of fame. 

But truly cursed because he has enough money for a lifetime, even if he were to live the life of Methusalah (932 years.) 

He has so much money that it means nothing, now. That's the cost of wealth.

This is a phenomena very few of us will know. Or understand. In fact, if you're reading THIS blog and find yourself in the same...going to the Google...obscenely priced Allen Edmonds Park Ave shoes, you have my deepest sympathies.

Imagine walking down Rodeo Drive and knowing that everything you see, is everything you can own. With a simple nod to your personal valet and a knowing wink, it, or everything, is stuffed into your Black Onyx Bugatti.

There's no coveting. No pangs of desire. No drifting off into an imaginary world to ponder, "If I buy this how will it improve my life? And is a double breasted blue blazer from Milan worth all that money to make me look 64 years old as opposed to 66?"

And what about houses? How sad it must be to walk into any Open House in America, or on the planet, and know that with a flick of a pen and a few quick signatures, within a week your movers could start laying out your socks in the top cedar-lined drawer of a hand crafted chest in your new Master Bedroom overlooking Martha's Vineyard or the private beaches of Molokai?

When everything is affordable, nothing is special. 

And when nothing is special, well, I might just consider tossing all that money out of a low flying C-130 and returning to my prior life as a line cook at Denny's, driving a 1966 Dodge Coronet and sleeping under 5 blankets to avoid paying the skyrocketing gas bills.

Or, on second thought, I'd hire a guy to write a screenplay and make that movie so I could see how it turns out.

Must Chew Better

Yup, Roundseventeen, and my concerns about ending up in a dirty nursing home, almost came to an abrupt and unexpected end.

Allow me to back the ambulance up a bit.

Ms. Muse and I had been invited to dinner, and a show (Funny Girl), at the Ahmanson Theater. Complements of my generous friend and under-appreciated Blogger Jeff Gelberg and his wife Vicki. In all honesty, Jeff is a much better writer than me. In even more honesty, let's be frank, that bar is not very high.

During the pre-show convivialities, we shared stories of previous theater outings, stories of outrageously obnoxious neighbors, and, I don't know how this came up, our collective appreciation for stand up Comedian and quite possibly the tallest Jew on the planet, Gary Gulman.

When it came time to order, I heard how delicious the salmon was at Kendall's Brasserie. But, having eaten salmon every night for the previous 6 nights, I decided to re-acquaint my taste buds with the charbroiled taste of red flesh and ordered the Steak Frites -- Medium Rare.

Big mistake.

The rib eye came out about three shades of red shy of Medium Rare. It was just past Steak Tartare. I should have sent it back, but it was our waiter's first night on the job and he was not the most attentive fellow on the planet. I didn't want to risk missing the opening number, so I decided to soldier on.

Also, at the risk of TMI, I was sporting a sore tooth (that was pulled last Friday). So I wasn't exactly bringing my A-level chewing game.

Do the math. 

At first I thought I could power through the errant pre-digested piece of meat now lodging comfortably in my esophagus, or whatever pipe it should not have gone down. I gave it several good attempts not wanting to disrupt the jovial storytelling at the table.

Then it became apparent to me, as I was flashing back to the mistakes I made at my Bar Mitzvah, the ferocious fights I had with father, the long-labored birth of my children (where I was not offered an epidural), the atrocious haircut of 1983, etc, etc, that I was in trouble. 

Big Oxygen-Deficient trouble.

I pushed back in my seat and could hear the chair screach across the tile floor. I gave myself some room. And instinctively coughed. Next thing I know the Gary Gulman joke stopped mid-punchline...

"Oh my god."

"Are you Ok?"

"Rich, do you mind if I steal one of your french fries?" (that was Jeff)

Within seconds, the flow of oxygen returned. I don't know where the chunk of Angus Beef went, nor did I care. I do know that I was rattled. Still rattled, thinking about the inglorious exit I might have made that night. 

Instead of Funny Girl it could have been, Funny Guy Dead.

Good to be back.

Shari, Shari baby

 

We ended yesterday's post with a picture of a stuffed squirrel mounted on a tiny red Barnstormer biplane. It was all part of a online dialogue I had been having with "Shari Goscinak", one of a thousand, or a million, Internet scammers who seem to contact me every hour on the hour.

You know it's a scam when you receive an unsolicited LinkedIn email that reads like this:

"I was viewing your profile and found you have led a fascinating life. And have acquired a wealth of wisdom. If it is no bother I like to chat further. And make great lifetime friends with you."

If I were really fascinating, and full of wisdom, would I be wasting my time clapping back at Internet scammers and digging around for photos of dead stuffed squirrels on the internet?

Without further ado, let's pick with Shari where we left off yesterday...

Turns out Shari is really into taxidermy. And knows just the right words to keep my interest.

Isn't that nice, Shari is into animal husbandry and wants to touch the dead squirrel. However, Shari is also batshit crazy. Please note how many unanswered emails she sent me.

That was just Saturday. Here's Sunday. Easy, girl, there's only so much of Richie to go around.

What's wrong with me? I'm not sure I can answer that,

Seems that in addition to Internet scamming, Shari has a yearning desire to learn taxidermy.

The correspondence never stopped. And so I decided to send Shari on her merry scamming way. 

And what better way to stop beating a dead horse than with a dead owl.

Meet Shari Goscinak

 

I was introduced to Shari", via LinkedIn on Friday 4/12.24.

But "Shari", an odd name for an Asian woman (maybe she hails from very North and Western parts) is not a career woman who takes No for an answer.

I was re-introduced to her on 4/13/24.

Oh Shari, I definitely want to keep chatting. 

No bother, Shari, no bother whatsoever. In fact, I was wondering how to fill my Roundseventeen blog today and thought about writing a lengthy piece about the situation in Gaza, or the Trump drama in NYC, but this is infinitely more fun.

Bringing Shari honor, can anything be more rewarding?

Moments later, I sent a picture. Hopefully it will win Shari's cold scamming heart.

....To be continued

Hot Wheels

I am an unlikely Car Guy.

Most car guys are car guys at a very young age. Most start in high school. They would drive up in their Camaros. Or Firebirds. Or Chevelle SSs (how do you pluralize that?) My first car in high school was a 1966 Plymouth Valiant. With all the chest-bumping horsepower of a riding lawn mower.

A real babe catcher.

My little 4 door sedan with the vinyl top was not very kind too me. In fact, it scarred me in a way that might have permanently put me off cars. A harrowing experience that I can still retell minute by minute. 

I will spare you the details other than to say, I was driving with 4 guys in the car. We were no strangers to fast food, illicit weed and late night diners.  So we had some big boy heft in the Valiant.

As we were descending a steep hill on Route 59 in Spring Valley, NY, I decided to slow down and pumped gently on the brakes. The pedal did NOT pump back. As the hill got steeper, the car got faster. And my brake pedal pumping got more futile.

"Pull the emergency brake," said Bob.

"Throw the transmission into park," said Jim.

"Eject, eject," said Jamie.

Because I'm retelling the story, you already know we all survived. 

I managed, skillfully, to steer through some traffic (horn blaring) and start the ascent of an even steeper hill. We pushed the car to a nearby gas station where a surly mechanic (redundant) popped the hood, removed the clamp on the Master Cylinder (which pumps fluid to all 4 wheels to activate the brake shoes) wiped the bottom of the cylinder with his greasy finger and uttered...

"Bone, fucking dry."

Those words still ring through my head.

Unlike my high school brethren, I came to cars, women, and having a little money in my pocket, later in life.

To wit, see my new Mustang Mach E, pictured above. This is the first time I'm driving an actual Ford. As you may or may not know, old Henry Ford, was a virulent anti-semite. I don't think my father would be happy. Then again I wasn't too happy with the brake-challenged 66 Plymouth Valiant, so I guess we've evened up that score.

Besides, I crossed the Don't-Buy-Cars-From-Jew-Haters Rubicon years ago, when I parked my fat ass in the very Teutonic Audi S5, which I still love. 

And even before that when I pimped Jaguars, an unlikely division of the Premium Auto Group, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Ford Motor Company. 

You can see some of my Ford handiwork here: https://roundseventeen.blogspot.com/2010/06/1000000-boo-boo.html

As you might have guessed, I love my new Mustang. It's fast. It's fit. And it sits higher above the ground, so I don't emit old man sounds when getting in and out of it.

I also love that it's an EV (also a first for me), so I get to drive in the fast left lane reserved for HOV and Clean Vehicles. This will come in handy when traveling out to Palm Springs to manage the Mojo Dojo Desert Casa House, city ID #5634.

I still have to figure out the whole charging thing. 

If the car is plugged into my house, the toaster oven won't go on.

There's always something.

Mmmm, lox

Good Monday morning. 

Well, good is relative. You probably had a better Sunday morning. Particularly if that included a meaty Sunday newspaper, a cup of fresh Joe and a toasted Everything Bagel with schmear, sliced red onion, some capers and a healthy helping of beautiful lox.

Years ago, probably on my birthday or perhaps Father's Day, I took advantage of my daughter's new driver's license and sent her to pick bagels and lox at our favorite Jewery (sp). She came back with a dozen assorted bagels. And instead of a 1/4 pound of lox, she had a huge plastic tub of a 4 lbs. of Morty's finest. 4 people /4 pounds, it made sense to a teenager who had never had a class in home economics but could go on at length about the oppressive patriarchy.

A pound of lox can you set you back a bit. This stuff is not inexpensive.

But like the price of DJT stock, it's coming down. Way down. And you will thank me for it later.

Recently I was in Sierra Madre, hardly the heartland of Southern California's Hebraic Community. The place is teeming with inordinately attractive, and polite, white people. There's not an aquiline nose in sight. I think you get the Wistaria-adorned picture. 

You can then imagine my surprise when a local coffee shop (Syndicate) served me up their signature Oslo sandwich ...

It was, and I apologize for getting all dramatic, as if I had died and went to heaven. You know, if Jews believed in that kind of stuff. 

Frankly I have no interest in spending eternity wearing a robe, listening to violins and rubbing elbows with perpetually cheerful folks who don't know how to kvetch once in a while.

From what I understand, there's no kvetching in heaven. There's not even kvelling, because what's the point of kvelling if you can't rub your good fortune in someone else's face. They frown on that in heaven. Or so I'm told.

I seem to have got distracted. Anyway, the Oslo Sandwich was so good I asked the manager where he got his lox.

"CostCo. Seriously. We buy a good filet of Atlantic Salmon, bring it back to Syndicate and cure it and hand slice it ourself."

Adding, "It's really easy to do."

My frugal-conscious Jewish/Scottish mind was blown. 

The very next day, I had a consult with Chef Internet and found several methods of home curing your own lox. And guess what, it worked. Moreover, it was delicious. My father, a DIY'er who made his own furniture, built his own a sauna, and had plans to assemble his own Chris Craft sailboat, would have been beaming with pride.

"Your son is a doctor, pfffft, mine makes his own lox."

It's been 72 hours of curing and salting and more curing, and my second attempt is even better than the first. 

I read an article today about a 60 year old man who got laid off from his job and dove into his passion for chocolatiering. He and his partner, packed up their bags, moved to Spain and are now very successful ex-pats, peddling a panoply of chocolate varieties to the Spaniards. 

If this next election doesn't return this country to sanity, perhaps I'll take my newfound fondness for salmon curing to the Iberian Peninsula. 

Buenos Diaz, señores y señoritas, quieres un Lox y Bagel?

Thanks, but no thanks

I live all by myself. In a house that has 4 bedrooms, 2 of which have been turned into storage rooms. 

The only sounds I hear are the barking of my dysfunctional neighbor's dog and the endless hammering and nailing of another neighbor who is putting up an ADU. 

There are days when I have not spoken to another human being and only opened my mouth in order to stuff it with an adequate daily supply of salmon and bourbon.

I'm not complaining. Simply giving you some context (my lack of human contact) for my proclivity to clap back at scammers on social media ("I hate to interrupt you and please excuse my manners, but you seem fascinating, can you kindly send me a friend request?") 

And to follow up on job leads I have zero interest in (see yesterday's post).

Zero.

Lately, I've been getting a slew of offers from complete strangers on LinkedIn. Offers to the effect of, "Want to increase your cold calling success rate. And double, maybe triple, your revenue as a freelance copywriter?"

What? And spoil my life as an MOSL -- A Man of Semi Leisure?

Besides 2 X 0 = 0.

And 3 X 0 = 0.

Also, and I hope the first kid -- followed by a couple more -- who sent me this odd inquiry will take no offense, but I don't need any help in the Cold Calling area. 

I wrote crappy PayPal emails for two years and know a little something about pestering people.

I also wrote 56 letters to GOP Senators and though I only got one response from Senator Tom Cotton, I was able to turn the endeavor in to a book. Still available on Amazon.  

I had running correspondence with Willy Ruiz, the Director of Club Membership at Mara Lago who tried to bilk me for $50,000.

And finally, though not finally finally, I have strung along more Illuminati scammers than I or any readers of R17 care to count.

In short, I know how to provoke a response. Additionally, I believe the need for Cold Calling assistance to any and all copywriters is non-existent. It is a self evident. Or at least it should be.

If you're a copywriter, aspiring or retiring, and you can't pen a good opening, either in the form of an email, a phone call, or a handwritten letter, you might want to rethink your choices and look into the lucrative field of HVAC repair.

That's all I'm saying.

Spilt Milk

As my friend and fellow blogger George Tannenbaum will attest, you don't compile thousands and thousands of daily entries and millions of words written in digital ink without indulging a sense of curiosity. 

Stories just don't pop out of the blue with the regularity of a Trump farcical "truth."

You gotta do a little digging. Turn over a stone or two. And sniff out opportunity. A longwinded way of saying I like to indulge in some casual non-committed job seeking. That is, when I get an alert from LinkedIn that so and so is on the hunt for a Copywriter, I like to bait the field with some premium doe urine, just to see if they'll pick up the scent.

BTW, back in the early hurly burly days of my copywriting career I actually wrote ads for doe urine as well as other accoutrements of today's modern hunter. It was quite an eye, and nostril, opening experience.

Recently I saw a job alert from the good people at Oatly. 

I'm an old school guy and like my milk straight from the teat of a Heffer or a Guernsey or a Dairy Shorthorn. But I appreciate the Oatly folks and their often humorous brand tone. And I thought, why not, I'll throw my artificial farmer's hat in the ring.

Moments after hitting the send button, I got a response. I've carefully cropped the email so as not to include the sender's name.

In an age of rampant ghosting, I was taken aback. And responded in kind.

Days later I received another missive. This one let me know just how dreadful and desperate the copywriting employment situation had become.

Close to one thousand applicants!

That's when it also dawned on me that I hadn't been corresponding with a live person (Sophie) but an AI generated bot, who despite her best efforts, could never brighten the day of a real copywriter seeking real copywriting employment.

1000 Applicants!

Looks like there'll be no company car for Richie.

I need to know

 

I have questions.

We all have questions. But these are questions that need to be answered. And quickly. Because there is an important election -- OK, they're all important -- coming this November. And unlike previous elections, where federal governance rarely touches the lives of the electorate, this one most certainly does.

1. Question for African American and Hispanic people who plan to vote for Trump: Are you outta your fucking minds? 

Are you not aware that he actively discriminated against potential black renters at many of his fleabag apartment holdings in NYC? That he was flagged by the Justice Department (you know, the pre-weaponized DOJ) and brought to court to answer for these charges? Are you aware that he spent his own money begging for the execution of the Central Park Five, five black teenagers absolved by DNA evidence. Have you not heard him say, "Where's my African American?" Who talks like that? 

And what about the Very Fine People who stormed Charlottesville years ago, protesting the removal of statues glorifying Civil War Generals and the cause of Slavery? These are outright Klansmen and Nazis. Albeit, very fine ones.

Same question goes to Hispanic Americans. Six Pothole Workers repairing a bridge in the wee hours of the evening fell into the icy waters in Baltimore recently. These were not drug dealers, rapists and criminals. They were not "vermin". They were not sent here to "poison the blood of this country" -- which I could argue has been sufficiently poisoned by narrow-minded asshats. 

These were six men who came to America for the same reasons millions of of immigrants have done -- to seek a better life in a land that provided that opportunity. I'd rather live next to 20 million of those "illegal" kind of people than 75 million "legal" xenophobic racists who vociferously aspire to Fascism.

Also, doesn't anybody find it interesting that God (of Middle Eastern descent) Blessed America only after Europeans left their homes, came here, and forcefully stole land that belonged to darker skinned people who were also God's children? 

2. Question for Women who plan to vote for Trump: Are you outta your fucking minds? 

Are you willing to forfeit the sovereignty of your body to a political party that openly seeks to take away your rights? Are you seriously considering supporting a "man" who proudly declares he is responsible for reversing Roe V. Wade while simultaneously suggesting he had nothing to do with it? How are medical and personal issues facing you, the business of old white men cutting back room political deals? Not to mention the fact that his mushroom sized porksword has probably yielded a dozen or so abortions by women who were tossed to the curb like so many of his failed companies.

As if all that were not enough, how can you vote for a man who has cheated on all three of his wives? Are you going to pull the lever for a shitbag who banged a porn star while his third wife was nursing his newborn son (who he refers to as Melania's son)? Are you seriously throwing your support to a decrepit monster who has openly talked about "dating" his own daughter? If I hadn't just cleaned my keyboard I'd be vomiting all over it.

3. Question for people my age who plan to vote for Trump: Are you outta your fucking minds?  

The last paycheck I got was for a project I did for the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. It wasn't a big check. And I'm not allowed to elaborate on it. Suffice it to say, there's no cash coming in. And there won't be until I apply for my Social Security benefits in October. The same SS benefits that our most famous billionaire and Speaker of the House/Weirdo TheoNazi Mike Johnson want to cut. 

And they don't want to stop there. They also want to slash the "entitlements" (money you and I have been funding all our working lives) so they can spread it around to their wealthy friends/sponsors looking to buy a third yacht. 

Moreover, they want to raise the retirement age, so that by the time you do get your benefits you'll be too busy sucking pureed food through a straw and shitting the bed you won't even notice it. 

I purposely saved this question for last. Why? Because the vast majority of Trumpsters are older white men who frankly don't give a shit about the first two groups I singled out. Or anyone else for that matter. But the minute someone starts taking money out of their pocket, all the alarm bells start going off. 

I guess that leaves one final question.  Are the bells going off or are the brains associated with them, sufficiently submerged in Kool Aid?

I gotta know. 

STFU

People with car alarms should be given the De*th Penalty.

I know you think I am being facetious. Or hyperbolic. Or slyly Swiftian. I am not. It's far too early in the morning, a cold rainy morning when I should be snuggled up under my blanket enjoying deep REM sleep, for me to muster up that kind of clever wordplay.

Furthermore, I haven't had the benefit of coffee. As I took my red hot anger straight to the keyboard before making my routine stop in the kitchen to fire up the Cuisinart and brew my necessary 8 cups of Joe.

In fact, without being too graphic, I didn't even take the time to slip into some tighty whitey's, shorts, T-shirt and flip flops, my standard California attire. I simply grabbed my new robe that my daughters got me for my birthday and made a beeline out to my front yard hoping to catch the aural offender and let my uncontrolled rage take over from there.

Sadly, by the time I had bolted from my bed, the 127 decibel ear piecing alarm...

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

... had stopped.

Like most people my age sleep comes easy. But because I'm often answering nature's frequent call, but it doesn't stay easy. I'd also like to point out that at this ungodly pre-sunrise hour, I was also enjoying a rare erotic dream. 

Unlike most mornings when I, and no doubt countless other veterans of the merciless ad industry, are caught in the PTSD nightmares of endless pitch meetings, pointless deadlines, and Lee Clow wondering why I haven't come up with any good ideas lately. 

"Lee, we didn't win the Wall St. Journal pitch. It's over."

Mind you, again at the risk of getting too graphic here, this one particular erotic dream involved Scarlett Johannson AND Charlize Theron. Two beautiful Hollywood starlets that don't get nearly enough callbacks from my subconscious and mysteriously-operating mind. 

Alas, if you're sensing my oversized anger, believe me when I tell you these written words can only convey a mere 37% of my current fury. If only I knew who to direct its searing laser focus at.

I had given serious thought to walking up and down the street and placing a hand on each parked vehicle just to set off the offending alarm again in order to confront the inconsiderate, ignorant, inhuman human who believes his or her precious minivan is worthy of such undue "protection". 

Did I mention Charlize Theron?

Finally, as a point of order. What good does a car alarm do if after 6:29 seconds of nonstop... 

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

... you haven't come of out your house to stop the supposed theft? It simply defies logic. 

It's probably a good thing that California has a mandatory 10 day waiting period before purchasing any firearm..

Probably, a very good thing.

 

Thursday Photo Funnies

Between illness (Covid), more illness (Covid Rebound) and even more illness (food poisoning and all its unpleasant excretions), my routine has been anything but lately. 

Wedged between all that is my burgeoning career as an amateur hotelier (renting out my Palm Springs property) and attempting to clear up the mess I made with the IRA rollover of my late wife's account.

I could end up footing a huge bill while our former president, who is seemingly above the law (not just a law but all of them), will walk away scott free. 

Nice country we got here huh?

Nevertheless, I have been faithful in my late afternoon walks. And in doing so, collecting a bevy of odd photos, including the dry fish display at Brothers Sushi in Culver City see above.) Mmmmm, unprocessed sushi.

Here are some more...

I had no idea that the new Culver City Platform sits on 

what used to be the historic Hal Roach Studios.

Ahhh, the Little Rascals and my own dysfunctional childhood.

Speaking of the cinematic arts, why was the Ghostbusters

Van parked next to my house? 

Unemployed philosophers? 

Isn't that a tad redundant?

Apparently the one sane critical thinking person

from Mississippi. WTF, indeed.

I don't know why I stopped to photograph a discarded sneaker by a curb.

On the other hand, or foot, why not?

Not only am I fascinated by odd rubbish,

I also have a thing for transformer boxes.

This reads: Lose Your Mind, Find Your Soul.

Another unemployed philosopher?

Found one of Abby's first paintings.

A tree, a house, blue sky, I'll take it.

The manager at the local Goodwill Store

would not sell me this half mannequin.

Maybe that's for the better.

I'm betting students from the ABC Bartending School

have the best graduation parties.

I say this with the greatest respect, "Crazy gentiles."

Same here.

This sauce is Bitchin'.

I've never tasted it, but Ms. Muse confirms,

"It's bitchin'."